In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 15

Chapter 15 Ingvarr

He arrived in a flurry of dust, Orvar not remaining still even when he came to a halt.
“You have no doubt heard the judgement of the wise council, and you will have guessed that you are the only recruits who will be trained as yet; you will be the elite troops of the Ethernath if you choose to remain. In three weeks time, we have been ordered to carry out a raid into Laternae territory. If you want no part, return to your homes. If however, you want to be one of only a hundred in existence, stay.”
A few of the men at the back sidled away, but the majority of them stay put.
“Right then. All the men, go to Valdemar for assignment, the women go to Katja.” Slightly unsurprisingly, there were five Arrows made up of men, to only two made up of women.

“We have to begin more formal training than before. Pack your things, we are moving to a camp on the other side of the oasis. We need to be separate; to focus entirely on the training.” Circling away, he waited for Katja and Valdemar to mount up and then spurred away, towards the edge of the oasis. As he did so, Kjell, Helmar and the other junior officers led their Quivers away, back towards the main settlement.
For the next few weeks, only a few hours a day were devoted to construction projects, while the rest of each day was given over to more conventional training, which involved a whole range of drills. The majority of these involved running through the various tactics devised by Ingvarr and his officers.
Initially, the focus of construction was a series of paddocks near the water’s edge where grass still grew. Following this, there was a new armoury, as well as the beginnings of a new forge, primarily for the manufacture of arrows and horseshoes. As a further week passed, the accommodation grew so that there was a separate building set aside for the senior command. Ingvarr had borrowed as many maps as possible of the western wastes, and the immediate borderlands of Laternas, in an attempt to plan his raid.

Looking at the maps, a plan began to take shape. He tried to visualise the terrain, piecing together what he had seen in the past, with the features marked on the map. In the end he decided to cross into Laternas territory due west of Sarpsborg; the furthest point from the cities marked on the map. No names were given, which indicated that the cartographer had been Ethernath, and he had likely only seen them from a distance. Ingvarr was still fairly certain they were there, and his strategy meant that he would avoid attracting undue attention, at least initially. The raid was intended to cover a broad swathe of land, within which he would burn crops and towns alike. He hoped that wholesale devastation would be enough to demonstrate the use of his organisation. It was likely, going on his experience earlier in the year, he would encounter at least one army of Lancers, but was confident that he would be able to defeat odds of two-to-one in an open battle if the need arose.
***
Markus

When he entered the tent, he saw all of the lords and ladies were already assembled.

The six nobles in charge of the host were sat in the central seats. Virinius was there. His full title was The Defender of the Heartlands and Lord of the Central Districts. The Lords Cyrus, Foster and Kasen, and the Lady Damiana, as well as Dardanus. While Dardanus was not technically a lord, he was the Custodian of Tournai, meaning that he governed the city and the surrounding lands. The difference was that he was elected by the major nobility, and not born to the title.
Each of the other lords ruled a province, and also met four times a year to serve as part of a parliament of sort in the capital of Tournai. The parliament made decisions and laws which would affect the entire continent, but other than that, the lords were left to their own devices when ruling their provinces.
In times when sizeable military forces were required, each of the major lords were required to contribute a number of soldiers proportionate to the population of their province.  To ensure that the soldiers received a useful amount of training, every man spent a quarter of every year between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five taking part in drills.

Each of the major nobility also relied upon their subordinates to help with the levy; members of the smaller, less powerful noble families who allegiance to them. Markus had initially found the plethora of nobility confusing, but he had learned each of the lords’ and ladies’ heraldry over time.
Mostly, their insignias were inspired by nature: using either either geographical features, or animals native to their home province. Virinius design was simply a white shield bearing a bright red heart; the very definition of purity. Other war banners lined the far wall of the tent, and Markus looked down the line, matching the emblems to the nobles sat before him. The golden, coiled fish was obviously Cyrus, and the solitary tower Kasen. Lord Foster was the three rounded oak trees, Lady Damiana a mountain encircled with fire, and Dardanus simply bore the quartered black and pale blue of the Custodians.
They were all sitting in a row, with their subordinates off to either side. As he walked in, Markus was very aware that it looked much like a trial. How could he be tried for a crime? His display had not hurt anyone, and surely he was not to be held accountable for the actions of a few religious fanatics?
Quelling the stream of slightly panicked thoughts, he walked to the centre of the tent with his head held high. Markus had no idea of the reception he was going to receive, so he kept quiet, and waited for another to speak first.
He did not need to wait long, as a voice rang out to his right, although its owner was lost in the recesses of the vast canvas-enclosed expanse.
“Behold, God deigns to grace us with his presence!” A giggle and a hiccup followed the exhortation. The words seemed to be in jest, from one of the men barely a noble, and from the sounds of it, he was drunk.

Markus kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, so he saw Virinius’ eyes narrow, and scowls appear on the faces of Lords Foster, Cyrus and Dardanus. The reptilian features of Damiana were kept carefully neutral, and Kasen went so far as to smile slightly.
While the drunken fool had broken the silence, his slurred words had only increased the tension which saturated the interior of the tent.  For Markus, it had served to show him where he stood. From the reactions of the high nobility, he now knew he had an ally with Lord Kasen, and potentially with Lady Damiana. He knew Kasen personally, by virtue of protracted campaigning with him since the Darkness had appeared, but his knowledge of the others was restricted to their reputations.

Although Damiana seemed sympathetic, he knew that she was supposed to be almost as manipulative as she was ruthless. Living high in the Wyrmnest Mountains, she depended on trade to feed her people, given the lack of suitable agricultural land. Everyone had heard stories of lengths she went to to secure trade arrangements, and even Markus had been shocked by the most recent.
Traders from the capital whispered that Damiana had seduced the head of a trade consortium based in Tournai in order to secure foodstuffs. No one really knew what had happened, only that the two women had been arguing one day, and then agreeing the next.
Such rumours were at once admirable and horrifying. On the one hand, she seemed utterly devoted to her people, and yet she seemed to have no morals whatsoever.

Of the others, he knew very little, but respected them all nevertheless. They had responded to Kasen’s call, to stand against the Darkness.
There had been an outbreak of muttering following the drunken shout, but Virinius put a stop to it by rising to his feet.
“We have convened this meeting to determine what exactly happened three days ago.”
Not a trial then. Markus struggled not to sigh in relief, and Virinius continued.
“We all know what we saw from a distance, but perhaps a first-hand account might be useful?” He gestured to Markus. Of course, the true reason he had been summoned.
“Markus?”
“Of course, my Lord.” Markus thought it best to be deferential, as was only proper.
“In truth, I do not remember much, although it is coming back slowly. I remember going down –being unhorsed. I thought I was going to die, going to be ripped apart by that thing. I couldn’t move; I thought it must have been from the fall. Then there was a tingling, all over. I killed the beast, and then I was stumbling forwards, and then vampires. I was bested but then something happened. I don’t know what it was, and then it all went black. I thought the field of fire was only a dream...”

The interior of the tent was deathly silent as Markus concluded. The looks on the faces of the high nobles only served to reinforce his earlier observations. He was sure of support from Kasen, and there was still a possibility with Damiana. With the others however, there was no hope.
This was confirmed moments later when Virinius cleared his throat and stood once again to speak.
“It is a shame you were not able to clear it up. It seems we will have to rely on mere conjecture to decide. As you all no doubt are aware, some within this camp, indeed within this meeting,” this with a sharp glance to Kasen, “believe that Markus is Death Himself, given form. While it is clear that something extraordinary happened, we do not know whether it was Our Lord Death that is responsible.”
Kasen stood abruptly. “If not Death Himself, then who or what is?”
“The Darkness.” Virinius answered without hesitation and it seemed that he had already given considerable thought to it.
“What is to say that it is not some plan?”

Damiana stood slowly, and waited politely for Virinius to nod at her before speaking.
“If it was the Darkness, why would the undead fear him, run away from him? You saw as well as any of us what that ‘fire’ did to the Darkness. Surely it would not put itself through that?” The point was a good one, and Virinius took a while to respond.
“We cannot know its purpose. We don’t know what it is, how or even if it thinks.” The Lords in support of him all nodded in agreement, seeming to think the matter laid to rest.
“Are you honestly trying to deprive us of the first real opportunity to make a stand against the Darkness?” Kasen was incredulous, uncomprehending. His lands were the ones being devastated in the North. Year on year the Darkness crept closer to his provincial capital of Tarbes, while he searched desperately for an answer.

“I- We are not trying to deprive you of anything. We must decide whether it truly was divine intervention, or not. If it was, then why now? Why not when the Darkness first appeared?” Virinius smiled at Kasen as if explaining something to a child. Kasen scowled but was prevented from replying when Damiana hastily cut in.
“It is not for us to question Our Lord, only accept.” The words sounded odd coming out of her mouth, and Markus had certainly not expected so pious a sentiment from her, given some of the things he had heard about her.
Lord Cyrus, still seated, gave a gruff bark of laughter, and Damiana spun, fixing him with her shining green eyes. The look seemed to impale him, nailing him back into his chair and silencing him instantly.
Virinius scowled at Cyrus as well, and was about to speak when Kasen spoke up again, though his tone was far more subdued.
“What do you propose then?” Markus was shocked: it sounded as if Virinius had won.
“Exile.” The single word hit him like a physical blow. Where would he go? What would he do? His entire life had been with the Blademasters. He knew he should speak up, protest, something.

“We cannot risk it, Markus must be gone. His next display could be in the centre of Tournai for all we know. You must understand, it is nothing personal.” The last was directed at Markus, and all he could manage was a stunned nod.
“What of the cult?” Damiana asked quietly. “We cannot exile him, not yet at least. The cult would be up in arms.”
Virinius swore. He raised his voice to address the tent at large. “Let it be known: anyone caught talking of the event is to be flogged for a first offence, and hanged if caught a second time.”
Mutters broke out once again, and this time Virinius allowed it to go unchecked. The meeting was over. Markus was still struggling to keep up. How had he come so close to exile?
He barely noticed when Kasen and Damiana converged on him, guiding him outside into the now-risen sun which had rid the camp of its misty shroud.
***
Ingvarr

When the day finally arrived to depart, he left his quarters and strode outside to find Orvar, walking through the crisp, early morning air in the direction of the horse enclosures. It took him very little time to do this. Reaching the enclosure, he tacked Orvar up, and swung up into the saddle. Ingvarr slowly cantered back to the low, plain-looking building he was sharing with Katja and Valdemar. In fact there were three separate rooms within. Himself and Valdemar shared a room, Katja had one to herself, and then there was a simple living space with a table, a few chairs, and a fire pit in one corner, positioned below a small gap in the roof. Once he entered hailing distance, he called out to them. The sun was only just emerging over the western horizon, so there was a pause while he waited for them to get up and dress. Valdemar emerged first, still shrugging into his leather jerkin and, pausing for a cursory greeting, sprinted off to find his horse.

Amusingly, Katja appeared moments later and did exactly the same thing. In spite of himself, and where they were all headed over the coming weeks, his face split into a smile, before he was suddenly chuckling to himself. The sound obviously discomforted Orvar because he shifted, stamping a hoof in agitation. Ingvarr had still not had time to consider his thoughts and feelings concerning Katja. He knew that he carried a certain amount of affection for her, but he ahdn’t worked out just how much.
A few minutes later, they both returned together, and he did not have to wait long until they were at his side.
“Gather the troops, we begin the ride for Laternas today.” The two rode off, their horses kicking up dust in the first rays of morning sunlight. Knowing that the coming days would be crucial for his people, Ingvarr sucked in a deep breath, before making his way to their training field. It took very little time for the Sheaf to gather, considering how many people there were. Soon however, there were three thousand troops mounted and standing in ranks. Heart swelling with pride, he did not know what to say, or how to articulate his pride in what they had achieved over the last few months. The men and women assembled were silent, waiting in anticipation of the coming campaign. This silence had extended even to the horses, as if they could sense the tension pervading the open field.
“Have no illusions, the success or failure of this raid will likely determine whether or not our nation survives. If we fail, we are doomed to extinction, with enemies on every side. We must ensure therefore, that we do not fail. We will go, we will burn their villages and we will kill there people, as they have done to us, and we will survive! By our horses and our bows, the world shall know us!”

Finishing with a shout, he turned to ride away. As he did so, his final words were echoed from the throats of all three thousand of his companions. As Ingvarr spurred onwards, Valdemar fell in behind him at the head of four Quivers. Two more would screen the flanks, as well as providing scouts, while Katja and her two Quivers would bring up the rear. They travelled for the span of the daylight hours for the first four days with the result that they were on the edge of the Waste early in the morning of the fifth day. By late afternoon, the scouts had reported the locations of dozens of small villages in the vicinity. Ingvarr smiled grimly in anticipation on receipt of the news.
“So it begins...” He said to no one in particular, as his eyes slid out of focus. Finally the moment to prove himself had arrived. As a Forerunner he had the natural confidence required to command men and women, but he had never actually done so.
None of the scouts had reported any sizeable military force anywhere near, meaning there were no Lancers around. Ingvarr was quietly glad. While he certainly did want to test his troops, he would rather blood them against the assorted militia troops he would find. At least two of the villages were built up around small towers, but they were merely built of wood, and easy to burn. All of the villages were within a close proximity, and Ingvarr judged that it should be easy to subdue the surrounding countryside. The terrain was ideal for his troops; wide open fields which were exactly what he needed to display his tactics. Even the forested areas lacked any dense vegetation at ground level, meaning the trees would only effect longer distance archery.
Content to trust his officers to destroy everything in their path, he led eight Arrows away to one of the villages, sending Valdemar to another. Katja was sent with all of her troops – two full Quivers – in a wide arc to protect the northern flank, and destroy everything in their path.
Before all the units set out, Ingvarr set a rallying point a few miles to the south, to indicate the general direction they would be moving in. There was no need for them all to actually meet, as they would all be kept in contact by messengers and scouts.

The morning of the sixth day dawned bright, and the sunlight blinded the man-at-arms patrolling the ramparts of the tower to such an extent that he heard the horsemen sweeping across the fields before he saw them.
Immediately, he began to call a warning, but all this served to do was to bring people out of their homes.
Dark, wild-looking tribesmen crashed across the fields, loosing arrows at full gallop. The first, sheet-like barrage swept dozens of people to the floor, wiping out half the population of the sleepy village in an instant.
Ingvarr spurred his monstrous horse onwards, determined to overtake the fleeing peasants. His bow sang as he fired arrow after arrow into the retreating backs of his victims, for them to sprawl face-first onto the dirt road. The gate of the tower seemed to be unable to close, as he was able to ride straight through it with an Arrow.
Ingvarr vaulted from the saddle, rolling forward and to his feet. Pulling his axe and a sword, he invited the half-dozen stunned men-at-arms to come. When they overcame their fear and did, he leaped forwards to meet them, weaving in amongst them in a blur of motion. Catching a sword with his own, he cleaved his axe into one man’s midriff before moving again. Less than ten seconds later, the rest of the group had succumbed to the blinding whirlwind of steel that Ingvarr had become. In that time, the men on the spiral stairway lining the outside of the tower had been picked off by the men behind him.

Motioning for his men to find anything of value, he jogged up the stairs. Upon reaching the ramparts, he was forced to duck back down as a spear lodged itself in the wall where his head had been. He moved around the spear and emerged onto the roof. There were two men present.
The man who had plainly just lost his spear seemed to be a normal guardsman, but the other was wearing a coat of mail, and had a richly embroidered cloak around his shoulders. Ingvarr quickly despatched the guardsman, hurling his axe with such force that when it struck him in the chest, it tipped him off the tower.
The man remaining ripped his sword angrily from its scabbard.
“Do you know what you’ve done? Even now your camp is being destroyed, your women raped, your children killed. It is only a matter of time before the Lancers hunt you down like the animals you are. My name is Sir Ormod, and you will die, even if it is not by my hand.”
Finishing his noble speech, the man leapt forwards, attacking with speed he would not have thought likely underneath the weight of the mail shirt. The two swords met with a crash; the sound ringing out in the crisp morning air. They met again a half dozen times, but Ingvarr was only humouring the pompous Sir Ormod.
Turning the man’s sword, Ingvarr grabbed his extended arm and pulled him off balance. In one lightning movement, Ingvarr twisted, disarming the knight, before driving his sword into the man’s navel. He felt a slight grinding as the blade grazed against his opponent’s spine and became lodged.
The man immediately crumpled. Ingvarr bent down and gripped the handle of his sword, placing a foot on the corpse. It came free with a horrible grating sound. Wiping it clean, he turned to look down at the small village.

Corpses littered the open spaces, and his troops were already moving among them, retrieving arrows. Here, behind enemy lines, every arrow may come to count. As he watched, men on the edge of the village dismounted, drew their weapons and kicked down a door. Screams rang out before being cut off abruptly. Grimacing in distaste, Ingvarr accepted that it was required; no one must be allowed to escape and give any warning. They need as much time as possible to lay waste to the countryside before they met any resistance.
Doors were smashed down all through the village, the residents quickly silenced, and anything of value was stripped out of the wooden houses. Then the first of them began to smoke, flames licking out of the windows and door. Soon, all the houses were ablaze, and his troops had formed up in the crop fields on the outskirts of the village, downwind of the smoke. Ingvarr took in the scene before descending the way he had come, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he reached the ground, his Arrow had ransacked the interior of the tower. Mounting up, he motioned for them to leave.

Some of his men banked the dry crops on the flames beginning to engulf the village, while another dispassionately dragged a corpse to the village well before tossing it down. Ingvarr hoped that this would poison the water supply for any survivors who might think to try and rebuild, and any forces looking to pursue him.  As they rode out of the village, Ingvarr stopped and turned to survey his handiwork. The tower had caught fully, acting like an enormous beacon, and he knew they would need to move fast to avoid anyone moving to respond to the obvious statement it represented. While he was watching, the roof of the tower caved in, and the whole structure collapsed in on itself with a loud crash. The sudden, sharp noise caused some of his men to look round in alarm, but as they realised what it was, they returned their eyes to the road ahead.
All in all, Ingvarr felt that the attack had gone fairly well, and his troops had maintained their discipline all things considered. Of course, there had been a few instances of men being separated from their Arrows, and Ingvarr realised that he needed to come up with a way of disciplining those who broke ranks. At the moment he was just trusting to their personal loyalty, and hoping that his drills had had some effect. While he was not thrilled with the idea of punishing men who followed into battle, he did recognise the need for it. He was surprised to find the he had incurred no losses at all in the raid, although one man had been wounded when a woman had surprised him inside one of the houses, and she had managed to plunge a knife into his arm before he had overpowered her. The wound was not fatal, but it had required some of the rudimentary medicinal skills taught to every man and women in the Sheaf. The man was still limping after the cut had been bandaged, but the only lasting damage was going to be to his pride, as Ingvarr had already heard a fair amount of good-natured banter passing around between Arrows as he had gathered his troops together.

Mobility was not an issue for the eight Arrows; they were able to move around terrain with a fluidity which would simply not have been possible for their more heavily-armoured Laternae counterparts. The land in eastern Laternas was fairly flat. While there were a few hills, they were not particularly steep or large. Most of the ground was covered in a mixture of forest and long grass. It took the ‘column’ very little time to reach the meeting point, so he allowed his troops to spread out in the surrounding countryside, searching for more prey. He remained at the meeting point with two Arrows, just in case any others arrived, allowing five of the others free reign. The last arrow he dispatched as scouts to the north, just to check on the progress of his other raids. It was not a lack of trust that pushed him to do this, only a slight worry, as he imagined he might about children. That he did not go himself was testament to the fact that he trust his officers’ ingenuity, and that they would send word ahead if they had run into any trouble. The next morning, something akin to his worst fears appeared to begin.
***
Markus

Once the nobility had dispersed in different directions, Kasen and Damiana walked the short distance back to Kasen’s tent as a group. They ducked inside one by one, and Kasen busied himself clearing a space on his table and setting out three cups, before pouring measures of wine in each. He then offered both Damiana and Markus the chairs, before beginning to pace around the tent.
“Markus, have you ever been to Tournai before?” When Markus shook his head, Kasen continued. “Well, there are things you should know about the capital. There are rules.”
“What do you mean? I have always been lawful...” Markus was almost angry, although only at himself. It seemed as if he was a young boy again.

Feeling like a naive child, Markus grudgingly accepted that he did not know anything at all about the capital or its inhabitants. He had grown up in a small fishing village on the Golden Shore, and had risen through the Blademasters on his merits. It was only in the last few years that Markus had risen to command the Blademasters, although he had been in the upper echelons of command for the last seven years. As such he had not had what one might call a traditional education, although he was obsessive when it came to reading the histories of the land, and in particular the battles. He had decided early on in his military career, at the age of sixteen that such reading would only enhance his already-impressive understanding of tactics and strategy. The result however was that there were gaps in his knowledge. Markus had not known nor particularly cared about any of the nobility before the Darkness had appeared, and they had been forced to campaign together.
Markus took a breath and continued.
“What do you mean, rules?”
Kasen smiled in sympathy. “They are not so much rules. But- “
“But...things will be expected of you.” Damiana cut in fiercely. “The way you speak, the way you act, everything you do will be examined. Anything you do wrong will be seized upon. The capital is all politics and...” Damiana sounded as if she was searching for the right word.
“Backstabbing.” Kasen provided it with a grim chuckle.
Damiana shot him a look, and then returned her gaze to Markus.
“Intrigue. You must understand that everything you do will have connotations that are not at all obvious. I will be with you most of the time, and I will try to make sure you don’t do anything too stupid.”
Markus glanced at Kasen, and his friend answered the unspoken question.
“I have to return to my estates, I have been away so long with this latest campaign. I have taxes to gather, crops to plant, and this quarter’s levies to gather and train. Don’t worry, Damiana will look after you. Despite the ah...stories...she is a true and loyal friend, among the finest I have.”
Damiana dipped her head, accepting the compliment grasciously.

“You should know, many of the tales about me are untrue. I find it helps to have a reputation though, however mixed.” She smiled wryly, and then became more business-like once more.
“A few basic rules to help you then. You will be a celebrity in the capital by the time we return. Despite Virinius’ order, word will even now be travelling south, and it will reach the capital before we do. You will receive countless invitations from the nobility, and you will have to decide either to go to all of them, or none. You cannot risk alienating anyone; by the looks of it you will need all the support you can get. My advice would be to go to all of them: make friends in the nobility, try to garner their support. Apart from that, just use your common sense: always be polite and so on.”
Markus nodded once in thanks, deciding that perhaps he could trust her. He knew Kasen to be an honest man, so his word counted for a lot, but he could not shake the feeling that there was something hidden behind those glittering green eyes.
The three of them discussed various scenarios, and the appropriate way to respond to them. Markus was exhausted, but knew that the ideas they were talking about now would be useful in the near future. Eventually, as the sky began to darken, Damiana decided that they had done enough.
“We can talk more on the journey back, but you seem to have good instincts so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Suddenly too weary for words, Markus nodded before rising to his feet and stumbling to the entrance of the tent. Just before he reached the flap, Kasen called him back.

“You may want to take a cloak. Everyone knows what you look like now, and I think you would prefer to go unnoticed this evening.”
Markus nodded in thanks and accepted the light cloak that he offered, throwing it around himself and drawing up the hood. Thanking Kasen and Damiana in turn, he ducked out of the tent and into the gathering twilight.
He still felt numb. The world had been so much simpler four days ago and now he felt like he had no idea about anything. He had did not know what had happened, or how it had happened, and this fact alone scared him slightly. As well as this, there was the very real threat of exile to contend with.

Markus wandered the camp for a time, unable to savour the fact that he had survived another yet another battle. Warriors were busy around the camp, tending to wounds, cooking food or drinking and talking. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to join one group or another and simply lose himself in the mundane gossip of soldiers while getting appropriately drunk. Markus was not sure however that he would be able to deal with the looks and comments he would inevitably receive.

He was glad of the cloak when he walked near a group of soldiers dressed in the pale blue and black of Tournai and heard their conversation. One grizzled old soldier was telling the rest of the group about how he had seen Markus conversing with the vampires before the fire came. Clearly they had been plotting, and Markus was a tool of the Darkness. The concept angered him, even if it was not unexpected. He had spent his entire adult life fighting against the Darkness, and everyone seemed to think now –following the events of the past few days- that he had now changed sides.
Suddenly feeling sick, Markus abandoned his stroll through the camp, and made immediately for his tent. The walk was pleasant with the cold, winter wind having a refreshing effect upon him, ridding him of the nausea which had been settled in his stomach since the conclusion of the gathering earlier in the morning.

He jerked from his reverie as he approached his tent. Two men stood at the entrance, one on either side, and both were armed. One bore the lone tower of Kasen, embroidered on the breast of his quilted shirt, while the other had the oak trees of Foster on his round shield. Markus tensed, suddenly aware that he was unarmed. He would have to tackle one of them, take their weapon and then take it from there. The one on the right –luckily Foster’s man- looked the skinnier of the two, and so Markus selected him as a target, thinking he would be easier to knock down.
As he approached, and was about to leap forwards, one of the soldiers recognised him, and carefully bowed to him, keeping his hands well away from the sword at his waist.

“My Lord, I am sorry if we alarmed you, but it was decided that you should have protection at all times. There are those within this camp who would harm you. I am Janus, and my companion here is Septimus.” Kasen’s man spoke, mimicking the odd bow of the skinny man beside him.
“Who decided I need protection? Damiana? Kasen? I am able to defend myself capably enough. And who wants to harm me?” Markus was annoyed at being treated like a child; he was twenty-six years of age, and was one of the most feared swordsmen in the Federation. Alongside the anger however, was a certain degree of understanding. While he might be one of the greatest swordsmen and tacticians on the continent, he was new to both open politics and its darker side.

As such he felt alarmingly naive when it came to it. His personal code meant that the way to take on enemies was with sword in hand, man to man. He could not comprehend those cowards who would debase themselves by paying for someone else to do their killing for them.
Janus gave him a frank look, sensing the underlying naivety.
“My Lord, there are plenty of people who would want to harm you; Virinius and half the other nobles to start with. How can you defend yourself when you sleep. Even you must sleep sometime, and you must trust us to protect you when you do.”
“If you must. Now tell me, who sent you? Clearly not Virinius, or any of the other high nobles.” Even Markus had worked that out. No man would speak of his lord in such a dismissive manner.
“We were sent by The Priest. He means to defend your physical form until his last breath.”

Markus felt a chill creep up his spine at the words, and it had nothing to do with the brisk wind. These two were some of the cultists which had been brought up briefly at the meeting earlier. He had no idea who ‘The Priest’ was, but assumed he was some sort of self-styled leader of the fanatics. He did not really know how to handle them, but remembered that it was only their wrath which had prevented him being summarily exiled. Perhaps it might be useful to be friendly with them. In any case, he did not think that they were a threat, and he was utterly drained from the day’s events.
“Very well. I am retiring for the night. Wake me when the camp begins to break. Allow only Palatius in unannounced.”
Janus and the silent Septimus nodded, and took up positions on either side of the tent entrance. Markus moved between them and inside.
The darkness inside was complete, the sun having completely gone down by now. Markus did not bother lighting a candle, simply undressing in the darkness, stripping down to his smallclothes. He picked up a sword, and rested it against the bed, before flinging himself down onto the thin, lumpy mattress. He was asleep almost before he hit the mattress, passing into a somewhat more carefree world.
***